The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 620: Between Fire, Wards, and Steel (3)
The Devil's Pen pulsed in my grip, hunger radiating from its core, as though it were some living creature yearning to devour whatever stood in our way. I could feel its heartbeat thrumming through the handle, merging with the pounding in my ears. The corridor around us still crackled with residual energy—whispers of the spells we'd unleashed and the fortress's own retaliatory surge. I let the Pen loose in one swift motion, releasing a wave of malevolent energy that rippled across the stone floor, seeking the vulnerable seams in the enforcers' defenses.
In a flash, the enchanter sprang to action. Their eyes flared bright with raw magic, and a translucent barrier shimmered into being around their body—a counterspell made manifest. Yet, I'd expected exactly that move. With my free hand, I guided the Psychokinesis Pen, bending the structure of their barrier so it angled just a hair's breadth away from where it needed to be. It was a subtle distortion, like pressing your thumb against a mirror; it forced the protective shield to develop a tiny gap at its edge, enough for my wave of curses to slip through.
The enchanter let out a sharp gasp, staggering as the malevolent energy grazed their shoulder. They quickly stabilized, but the damage was done—a hairline crack in their defenses. A second later, the pyromancer seized that opening, unleashing a roaring column of fire straight at me. Flames fanned out, devouring the stagnant air of the corridor in a flash of heat and brilliance. The high-pitched whoosh of igniting oxygen momentarily drowned out the shriek of alarms.
Predictable. I was already switching to the Water Elven Pen before the pyromancer even finished gesturing. The slender tip flicked once, summoning a spiraling current of water. It surged forward and smashed into the inferno, swallowing the flames in a veil of steam and hissing droplets. The water didn't merely extinguish the fire; it fought it with an almost living grace, an embodiment of fluid lethality that forced the pyromancer to recoil.
In that same breath, Kyrion made his move. He darted across the corridor in a low crouch, ignoring the fresh cracks in the walls and the swirling debris overhead. I saw him extend a hand toward one of the nearby constructs—a menacing automaton whose mechanical limbs flexed with the single-minded purpose of butchering intruders. Kyrion's fingers brushed its central core, and a faint hum of necromantic power vibrated through the air.
The runes etched into the automaton's metal plating dimmed abruptly, sputtering like a guttering flame. Sparks danced along its legs, as if it were struggling to understand the new commands being shoved into its arcane logic. Then, with a jolt, the construct spun, turning away from us and targeting the other Council guardians instead. Necromantic interference had twisted its programming, and it was now our unwilling ally—at least for as long as Kyrion could maintain his grip on its fragmented will.
The next few seconds were chaos. My wave of curses collided with the enchanter's battered shields, and the fortress itself groaned as if outraged by our audacity. Scorch marks streaked the floors and walls, testaments to the spells and collisions ripping this place apart. Fine cracks and fractures radiated through the stone, like veins in a wounded beast.
Every muscle in my body tensed. Time was slipping through our fingers. The fortress was in an unstable state, and if we stayed much longer, we risked being buried alive beneath falling debris. Or worse, being surrounded again—no matter how skilled we were, the Council's resources ran immeasurably deep. Already, I could sense the wards flaring somewhere in the distance, likely rallying more constructs and enforcers to converge on us. We had minutes, maybe less.
My mind raced, combing through the scattered details I remembered about Aetherion's construction. Much of it was gleaned from old texts and half-buried historical records: the architecture, the secret passages, the layout of wards that had been layered over centuries. I recalled reading about a hidden maintenance passage that led to the leyline caves beneath Aetherion. A place seldom mentioned even in hush-hush Council memos because of the dangers swirling in those underground channels. But that same secrecy made it perfect as an escape route—assuming we could break through the ancient wards sealing it.
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"There," I murmured, pointing toward a passage branching off from the main corridor, a route thick with swirling dust and half-collapsed rubble. Kyrion caught sight of my gesture and nodded, trusting my instincts without question. I allowed myself a split-second of gratitude for that silent understanding. Our alliance might be one of necessity, but in moments like these, it felt like we had fought side by side for a lifetime.
We broke into a sprint, weaving past blasts of arcane fire and the thunderous strikes of the newly-repurposed construct that was now harrying the enforcers. The air smelled of char and raw magic, an acrid mix that made my eyes water. I heard a chunk of the ceiling crash behind us, narrowly missing one of the enforcers, who cursed in fury before launching another projectile spell in our direction. Thankfully, it fizzled against the corridor's half-collapsed wards, scattering sparks across the floor.
The passage I'd aimed for quickly came into view—tall, imposing doors with an otherworldly shimmer. Runic script coiled around the frame, glimmering in angry red and silver. It looked old, older than any other part of the fortress we'd seen. My chest tightened. If memory served, this was exactly the place rumored to lead to the sealed maintenance tunnels that dipped below Aetherion's foundations, down into the leyline caves. The only problem? The door was rumored to be locked by an "unbreakable enchantment" requiring an authorized Council mage's mana signature.
I cursed under my breath as we skidded to a halt. Kyrion joined me, panting. The enforcers were closing in, though the raging construct he'd twisted to our side was buying us valuable seconds. Could we fake the mana signature? Possibly, if we had time for a delicate ritual. But we didn't, not with the entire fortress coming down on our heads.
Then the air warped, a nauseating shimmer. I sensed it before I saw it—the intangible spin of arcane frequencies that signaled a high-level projection. Sure enough, in front of the sealed door, the air crackled, forming the outline of a tall figure. That presence alone seemed to hush the corridor's chaos for a single, dreadful moment. Even the sparks and swirling dust appeared to slow, as if uncertain how to behave in the presence of this newcomer.
The figure's projection stabilized into a pale silhouette, regal in posture, exuding a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Though their features were slightly distorted by the projection's interference, I could still make out an elegant brow and keen, analytical eyes that flicked over the scene. It was like they were dissecting us with a single glance—a glance that felt uncomfortably intimate, as though they knew more about me than I did myself.
"Kyrion," the projection said, voice echoing with that infuriating calm. "So you survived." The words felt less like an observation and more like a quiet condemnation, as though Kyrion's existence was an affront to some grand design.
Kyrion's jaw clenched. I could practically hear the tension in his teeth. He stayed silent, though his eyes blazed with something like rage.
Then the figure turned those piercing eyes on me. There was a faint curl of amusement at their lips. "And you," they said softly. "The outlier."
A cold wave rippled down my spine. I'd been called many things in my life, but "outlier" had a certain finality to it, like I was an anomaly in some carefully orchestrated equation. My grip on the Pens tightened, but I refused to let my voice betray any weakness. "Who are you?" I demanded, filling the corridor with the calm steel of my tone.
They didn't answer directly. Instead, they offered a cryptic statement, the kind that made my blood boil: "You'll understand soon enough." They spoke with an air of inevitability, as though I was meant to walk a path they'd laid out ages ago. That smug confidence pricked at every nerve I had. I don't do well with being told my fate.
Frustration and fury collided in my chest, and I let it out in the form of immediate violence. With a single, seamless command, I channeled power through the Fire Pen and the Devil's Pen simultaneously. A twisting amalgamation of flames and curses exploded in a wide arc, ripping through the projection's silhouette. The resulting flash momentarily flooded the corridor with harsh red light, making me squint against the brilliance.
Yet, the figure didn't even recoil. They merely smiled—faint, unperturbed. The grin was more a display of pity than fear. Then the projection flickered once, twice, and finally dissolved into wisps of energy. Like a whispered taunt, it vanished, leaving behind nothing but a swirl of static motes in the air.
I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Kyrion shot me a look—a mix of gratitude for striking out and caution for doing something so rash. The fortress, meanwhile, roared around us with renewed vigor, as though it sensed our momentary distraction.
Ignoring the adrenaline screaming in my veins, I turned back to the sealed door. My eyes flickered across the runic script, analyzing each symbol, searching for some vulnerability or a misaligned ward. This was beyond standard Council locks. The enchantment was ancient, layered with archaic spells. I half-expected it to repel even the attempt to tamper with it.
But Kyrion acted first. "Stand back,"
